The Rise of Azrael

Like all major Battles that were fought on the plains, on one such plain in the middle of Mongolia, a lone silhouette stood among the sea of dead. His sword pointed to the ground. Surrounded by the bodies of  allies and foes alike. For a man like him, friends was not a luxury he could afford. His clothes were dripping blood, but none of it his own. His hair was as dark as the pits of Tartarus, yet glistened in the Mid-day sun as a gentle breeze caressed his pale face. His eyes were closed in a silent prayer to the fallen. He was exceptionally aware of his surrounding because his adrenaline induced hypersensitivity had not yet receded to normal levels. And that was what saved his life, again.

The slight twang caused by a bowstring releasing an arrow stopped his prayer in it's tracks. The whizzing of an arrow moving though the air allowed him to visualize the arrow's path. The man simply took a step to the right, and the arrow that was aimed at his heart, embedded itself deep in the sludge. The sludge was formed by the fertile soil of the plain being soaked with the blood of over a 1000 soldiers. The man had not yet opened his eyes, but could hear his would-be-assassin's labored breathing. The sound of a sword being drawn from it's scabbard registered in the man's ears. The man completed his prayer as he waited for his would-be-assassin to wade through the dead bodies and sludge. As he finished his prayer, he turned towards his opponent and opened his eyes. The pale grey eyes devoid of human emotion, momentarily caused his opponent to stumble. But his logic and determination overcame his instincts that were yelling at him to flee as fast as he could.

The man watched the assassin as he made his way towards him. Even from afar, his face was easy to observe for the man. His blonde hair was now dark red, being stained by the sludge. His bright blue eyes betrayed his youth with their sparkle, now clouded with satisfaction. The sword he carried was a Athenian long-sword. Long, Flexible, but required a great deal of control over one's body. The flat of the blade was engraved with various Greek letters. The boy stopped four paces away from the man. The man's eyes narrowed as he saw the gold locket peeking through the boy's robes. 

"You're making a big mistake, boy", The man spoke in a raspy voice that sounded like nails on a chalkboard.

The boy's rage made his body shake ever so slightly at being referred to as a boy.

"I'll make the mistake of finding you everyday if I could. But I'll be happy to do it once, just to bring you back" The boy spat back.

"So you're another one who believes the rumors" The Man rasped out.

"No. I'm the one who knows the rumors to be true. See all this time, those old cronies sitting in the King's court didn't believe me. They believed the old liar. Well, I'll give you that.You hide really well when you want to. But now you've got to come home to our country. You-"

"YOUR Country."The man Roared, "Not mine. Not now. Your land thinks me dead, and I intend to keep it that way. Ever since that backstabbing bastard Agamemnon impaled me in the middle of a burning Troy, I've renounced my claim to being a Greek."

"Oh! Really!" The boy said sarcastically."What sort of warrior would have to deny his own motherland just because an old politician thinks you dead? Did one betrayal make the invincible Achilles, son of Peleus, King of Myrmidons, hide like an insect?"

"Boy, you have no idea what brought me here", he rasped out.

"What possible reason, would have brought you so far away from the Aegean, away from your motherland into this crazy land where people have not seen the sea in their lifetimes? "

"The reasons are for me to know and you to forget", Achilles snarled. He then turned around and sheathed his jeweled Spartan blade that was still dripping blood and started walking away.

"All right. Just remember, the old king may have declared you dead, but the Legend Of The Invincible Achilles lives on. You may fight as a mercenary for Asian rulers, but The Legend fought for himself and his glory." The boy yelled out in frustration to the retreating figure.

Achilles stopped in his tracks, bent down for some time and then stood up with a bow and a single arrow. And without turning back, fired the arrow. The arrow reached the boy's foot and made a deep cut on his heel.

At the base of the arrow was written,"The silver tongued Odysseus may have taught you how to convince people, but you have a long way to go. Tell the blind bard who calls himself Homer, that Achilles is Dead, but the Immortal Azrael isn't."

The boy searched for Azrael for the rest of his life. The only proof of his existence was the slight limp which he lived with for the rest of his life, and the stories of an Angel of Death.